


Unfinished Symphony

by Daziechane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk John, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Jealousy, Licking, M/M, Masturbation, May/December, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daziechane/pseuds/Daziechane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mummy has a protégé, a dashing, talented, posh young cellist. She holds a salon concert for him, which Sherlock and John attend.</p>
<p>Surprisingly not boring, at least for one of them…</p>
<p>What will John do when Sherlock and Rhys start playing duets and there’s more than just music in the air?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Allegro

“Sherlock? The post is here.” (Bills, bills, advert, I may have won a cruise, Mr. Dean Smith? Who’s that? Oh- actual mail. One for me and one for Sherlock. Hmmm… nice envelopes. Hand calligraphy, wax seal. Very posh. Must be invitations.)  
  
John played at deducing sometimes, but never so Sherlock could see.  
  
“Sherlock? We’ve each gotten some actual mail. Do you want yours or do you want me to open it?”  
  
While John waited for the long lump on the couch to respond, he opened his letter.  
  
“Dr. John Watson” it read, in smooth navy script on the thick cream paper. “The honour of your presence is requested. A debut recital featuring cellist Mr. A. Rhys Jones. Friday, 27 September 7:00 P.M. Holmes Manor, Sussex. Semi-Formal or Black Lounge. RSVP”  
  
Holmes Manor? Semi-Formal? Black Lounge? John blinked slowly. He was sure these were all proper English words, but he was having a difficult time assigning meaning to them.  
  
“Uh, Sherlock? What’s ‘semi-formal or black lounge’ mean?”  
  
At the question, the lump groaned. “It means Mummy’s throwing a party. Open the other invite.”  
  
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The honour of your presence is required…” John blinked again. “Why am I requested, and you’re required?”  
  
Sherlock flopped over on the sofa in a huff. “Because Mummy means to torture me.”

**********************************************************  
  
John gave up trying to wrest more information out of Sherlock, the detective had dived dramatically into a sulk and refused to acknowledge the doctor’s questions.  
  
John knew that RSVP meant that he should let someone know that he would be attending the recital. But there was no number to call, no email, and not enough time to send a response via post. He didn’t attend many posh parties, ok- ANY posh parties to be truthful, and didn’t want to mess this one up right out of the gate.  
  
As he pondered his options over a fresh cup of tea, he heard steps on the stairs, and a knock at the open parlor door.  
  
“Good afternoon, John. Sherlock.” Mycroft Holmes waited at the threshold for someone to invite him in. “Ah,” thought John, “a social visit.” If it had been business, Mycroft would have abandoned all niceties and made himself quite comfortable in Sherlock’s armchair without wasting a moment.  
  
“Come in, Mycroft.” “Go away, Mycroft.” 221B’s residents spoke over each other.  
  
John frowned at Sherlock’s back and beckoned to Mycroft. “The kettle’s just boiled, would you like a cuppa?”  
  
Mycroft stepped in and surprisingly, followed John into the kitchen and sat at the small table. “Lovely, John. Thank you.” He glanced around. “I see you’ve received your invitations. Mummy is so excited to show off her latest protégé.”  
  
A loud snort and some rustling emanated from the sofa. Both men in the kitchen rolled their eyes.  
  
“I’m glad to attend, Mycroft. I was just trying to figure out how to reply when you arrived.”  
  
“Oh no need, John. I’ve already taken the liberty to mark both of you down as attending. Your invite was just a courtesy. I assumed you would be Sherlock‘s plus one, and he is, after all, a required guest.”  
  
John was a little taken aback, but shook it off. Just one more oddity when associating with the Holmes brothers.  
  
“Please feel free to wear your brown suit, John. Don’t put yourself out getting something new. Afternoon, Sherlock. Thank you for the tea, Doctor.”  
  
And with that, Mycroft swept down the stairs so quickly, so quietly, John was left to wonder if he’d actually even been there.  
  
Sherlock huffed from the sofa.

*******************************************  
  
“John! Get up John! We’re going shopping!” Sherlock bound into John’s room and began rummaging through the wardrobe.  
  
John carefully opened one eye and did his best to glare at his flatmate. “I went shopping yesterday. Don’t tell me you’ve used everything for experiments again. Sherlock- we cannot afford to keep buying milk every day. If you don’t stop wasting it, I’ll have to resort to that ghastly powdered creamer.”  
  
“Not food shopping, you idiot. Clothes shopping. There is no way I’m letting you wear that dreadful brown suit to dear Mummy’s party.”  
  
John struggled upright, blinking and stretching. “What’s wrong with my brown suit? Even Mycroft said… Oh. I get it. Because you don’t like your brother, I have to buy a new suit. Well it’s not going to happen. I cannot afford, no- I WILL NOT waste the money.”  
  
“Who said anything about you buying it?” Sherlock waved a credit card in John’s direction, as he continued to dig through John’s clothes. “I nicked Mycroft’s credit card the last time he made me get in his car.”  
  
John tried to look stern, but failed miserably. He began to giggle, and Sherlock grinned. “Now get dressed and let’s go put a dent in the British Treasury.”

********************************************  
  
A sizeable dent indeed.  
  
Several hours later, both John and Sherlock were kitted out with new suits- everything from pocket squares to pants to socks and shoes. John’s ensemble was dark blue, almost black, and shot through with widely-spaced, white pinstripes. A waistcoat helped define his trim waist, and the blue tie and square brought out the color of his eyes. He gaped as he stood in front of the tailor’s mirrors. “Sherlock! I look like a movie star!” Sherlock smiled warmly. “I wouldn’t go that far, John, but it is nice to see you out of those horrid jumpers.”  
  
Sherlock’s suit was dark gunmetal grey, with a windowpane check in silver. No tie or waistcoat, of course, with a deep aubergine shirt and matching square. If John thought HE looked like a movie star, he couldn’t imagine what galaxy Sherlock belonged to. He swallowed and looked away while Sherlock harangued the tailor and made arrangements to have everything delivered to Baker Street.

********************************************  
  
Sherlock acquiesced to allowing Mycroft send a car for them on the day of the recital. Neither he nor John had a vehicle, and he refused to take public transportation from London to Sussex. Since the alternative was renting a car, and Mycroft had cancelled his credit card after receiving word of the duo’s shopping spree, the black limousine was the most logical option. The only drawback was that they had to share the space with Anthea, who, after giving them both uncharacteristic appraising looks, immediately went back to tapping at her mobile. Even though she was quiet, her very presence rankled him, and Sherlock tapped angrily at his own phone.  
  
John, on the other hand, was practically giddy. With his new suit and freshly cut hair, he felt like a teenager going to a formal dance. He glanced at Sherlock and revised his thoughts. A teenager going to a formal dance with the best looking date in school. He tapped his fingers on his knees and grinned widely.  
  
“Oh do stop it John. You look positively unhinged. Have a drink and settle down.” Sherlock handed John a crystal tumbler containing two fingers of scotch from the limo‘s bar. John took it and sipped absentmindedly, still looking forward to the recital.


	2. Adagio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy has a protégé, a dashing, talented, posh young cellist. She holds a salon concert for him, which Sherlock and John attend.
> 
> Surprisingly not boring, at least for one of them…
> 
> What will John do when Sherlock and Rhys start playing duets and there’s more than just music in the air?

Mummy had gone all out for the concert. The drive of Holmes Manor was strung with fairy lights, and dark-uniformed valets waited at the massive front doors to whisk away vehicles and stow bags for the guests who would be spending the night. In the twilight it appeared as though thousands of fireflies magically made the autos and luggage disappear.

Sherlock strode from Mycroft’s town car as though it were on fire, leaving John to help Anthea alight. She swept another appraising gaze over him, smiled briefly, and then she too melted away into the dusk.

John walked to the door, but was stopped by an elderly gentleman in a butler’s uniform. “And you are….?” John blinked. “John Watson, why?” “My apologies sir, but no one is permitted entry without an invitation.” John looked around quickly, mentally cursing himself for leaving his invite at home, stabbed to the mantle with Sherlock’s. 

Seconds before he expected to be tossed out on his ear, a throaty laugh floated across the foyer, followed by a cultured admonition. “Jensen, I appreciate your attention to protocol, but this is Doctor John Watson.” John’s name was enunciated clearly, a full stop between each word. The butler (Jensen, John assumed) paled slightly and bowed his head. “Of course, mum, I don’t know what I was thinking. Please, Dr. Watson, accept my apologies, and enjoy your evening.”

John turned to face his savior and was dazzled by a mature woman in a long green gown. Her silver hair was cut in a stylish bob, her makeup perfect. She towered over John, but when she walked, he could see that she was wearing scandalously high heels. Stripper heels. His mind reeled. He’d never been with an older woman, but if he were to think about it, THIS would be the woman.

“Dr. Watson, at long last. I’m thrilled you could join us tonight. I’ve heard so much about you, mostly from Mycroft sad to say, but sometimes Sherlock lets his guard down.” She grasped both his hands, and kissed him lightly on both cheeks. THIS was Mummy? John stammered before remembering his manners. “Mrs. Holmes, how lovely to meet you. Please, call me John.” He bent to kiss her hand and grinned rakishly, looking up at her through his eyelashes, Three Continents Watson to the fore. “I hope you won’t hold Mycroft’s opinions against me.” “Well, John, we’ll have to see how things progress before I decide to… hold anything against you.” John’s mind slipped another gear. Was she FLIRTING with him? God he hoped so.

An irritated noise came from behind them. “John, if you’re quite through with your juvenile advances toward my mother,” Sherlock spat out, “we should see about getting you something to eat. The scotch in the limousine obviously went right to your head.”

Before John could protest, he was dragged away. Mummy tossed back her head and laughed.

As they approached the ballroom, John managed to plant his feet and pull them to a stop. “Sherlock! What is going on with you? It was harmless. Certainly- your mother is a stunning woman, but I would never…”

“I don’t want to see my flat mate become another one of my mother’s conquests.” Sherlock hissed. “It’s bad enough we’re going to have to endure this recital by her latest peccadillo, I couldn’t bear the thought of you two…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but John’s eyes widened anyway. 

“What? Your mum? You mean I…” John didn’t finish his sentence either. In a rare moment of deduction, he understood by the murderous look in Sherlock’s eyes that saying “I had a chance with her?” would have been more than a bit not good. He kept it to himself, and instead said “You’re over exaggerating, Sherlock. She’s not interested in me, why would she be? I’m ordinary.” He rubbed his hands and turned to the food. “Now- tell me what all this stuff is. Is that blackberry jam?”

Sherlock didn’t answer and John turned back. He was struck by the look on Sherlock’s face, something akin to wonder, puzzlement, a struggle to understand. It was gone in a blink, and Sherlock stammered “No…no. That’s caviar. A sort of ‘fish berry’ jam. You’ll like it. It’s salty.”

John filled his plate and flagged down a waiter for a flute of champagne. He left Sherlock’s side and went to stand at a tall table along the edge of the room. Exhaling slowly, he clenched and unclenched his fist. It wasn’t as though he was a total peasant, and he knew he looked good in his new suit, but he felt completely out of his element here. The limo, the scotch, the fairy lights, the butler, the mother, the food, the drink… Food and drink. At least he could relate to that. He wolfed down the hors d’oeuvres and scanned the gathering, absently wishing for a beer and some crap telly.

***********************************************************

By 8:00, John was wondering if the concert was going to happen at all, and he was getting bored. He’d tried everything on the buffet at least once, (Sherlock was right- he did like the caviar), he’d had a couple more flutes of champagne, and he’d chatted with half a dozen beautiful women. Sadly, the only one who looked like a sure thing was Mummy, and he didn’t dare go near her alone again. He didn’t trust himself, nor did he really trust her. He hadn’t seen Sherlock in ages, and the only other people he knew here were Mycroft and Anthea. The former was surrounded by young government types, the latter had erected her virtual walls and was seated on a divan near the front door. John had no plans on interacting with either of them if he could avoid it.

When the clock struck, a set of tall doors off the side of the ballroom opened, and Jensen entered the room, coughing politely. “If you would all please follow me…” John swigged the last of his champagne and joined the dozens of others slowly making their way into the conservatory. Still not seeing Sherlock, he wondered again why he bothered to show up.

He went to sit in the last chair of the last row, but felt a hand at his elbow. “You are NOT leaving me to sit up there alone,” Sherlock whispered, as he steered John to the front of the room. “Mummy insists I sit up there, since I’m the musician in the family.” John found himself in the front row, sitting between Sherlock and an ancient relative introduced as “Auntie Vera.” “LOVELY TO MEET YOU!” she boomed, obviously deaf as a post. “IT’S BEEN TOO LONG SINCE SHERLOCK BROUGHT ANYONE SPECIAL HOME.” John tried to explain that they were just friends, but was cut short by Mummy’s arrival.

At the end of her introduction, to quiet applause, the cellist walked from the back of the room and took his seat in the curve of the piano, instrument between his knees. He looked up and beamed at Mummy and John heard the quiet intake of breath from all corners of the room.

Quite simply, A. Rhys Jones was stunning. Tall, pale but not sallow, with auburn curls and green eyes that belied Irish ancestry instead of Welsh as his name suggested. He wore a black tuxedo, but instead of the traditional white shirt, his was midnight blue with sparkling studs. His smile was easy, and his dimples… well, John always appreciated dimples on a woman, and was surprised to learn he felt the same way about them on a man. 

And then Jones began to play…

John often joked that while Sherlock played the violin, he himself played the radio. He couldn’t tell Bach from Beethoven, and the only classical melody he could hum was from The Nutcracker. He left the classics to Sherlock, preferring MoTown. The first piece though, he found himself holding his breath. It was so… mesmerizing. Minimal, just cello and piano, but so lush. How was he DOING it? The music ebbed and flowed, and John remembered to breathe.

As the last note of the short piece rang out, John was broken from his reverie by a noise from Sherlock. Something between a gasp and a moan, it was shocking. Sherlock was open-mouthed, eyes flashing. If John didn’t know better, he’d have said he was aroused.

As the applause died down, the next piece started, again- John was mesmerized and Sherlock entranced. By the end of the concert (6 pieces in all) Sherlock looked positively undone, flushed and breathing hard, his pupils dilated to a point John had never seen before. He grinned at the thought. His stoic flat mate, aloof and above, wrecked.

***************************************************************

Most of the guests had left, the ones who remained already retired to their rooms in various wings of the Manor. Only John, Sherlock, Mummy and Rhys remained in the library. Jensen had banked the fire, and the quartet lounged in leather wing chairs in front of it. A decanter of brandy sat on a tray, ready to refill any empty snifters. The conversation wound around, where did you attend school? How long have you been playing? What’s your favorite piece? John listened but did not contribute, content to bask in the glow of the three glorious creatures in front of him. He could get used to this, he thought. Surrounded by beauty for all the senses- beautiful music for his ears, beautiful brandy to taste, beautiful clothing to touch, beautiful people to watch. But beautiful scent? What was that? 

He looked around and noticed that Mummy had risen, yawning delicately and rolling her shoulders. Her perfume wafted toward John, driven by the warmth of the fire. “On that note, gentleman, I’m off to bed. “ The three men stood. She placed a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, then Rhys’. Turning to John she said “Dr. Watson? Would you please show me to my room? I daresay this conversation isn’t interesting to you, and these two will be at it all night.”

John flushed, and darted his eyes to Sherlock. Surprisingly, the detective didn’t even seem to notice his mother‘s request, having already sat back down to continue his discussion.

Mummy offered her arm, and John took it. With her free hand, she reached down and removed the treacherous heels, bringing her down to just below eye level with the doctor. With the practiced air of someone used to getting her way, she handed him her shoes, and they walked from the room, arm in arm.

Neither Sherlock nor Rhys even noticed.


	3. Scherzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy has a protégé, a dashing, talented, posh young cellist. She holds a salon concert for him, which Sherlock and John attend.
> 
> Surprisingly not boring, at least for one of them…
> 
> What will John do when Sherlock and Rhys start playing duets and there’s more than just music in the air?

Holmes Manor was sprawling, with seemingly endless staircases and hallways. John’s usual sense of direction and place was already diminished from champagne and brandy, but Mummy’s perfume and her touch on his arm intoxicated him completely. He was lost on several levels within minutes of leaving the library.

He smiled to himself as he realized what he’d just thought. “Mummy’s perfume…” He didn’t even know her name. He supposed it didn’t matter in the long run.

“Mycroft tells me you were injured abroad.” It was a question in the form of a statement. Like the Holmes brothers, Mummy expected people to answer even the unasked.

John coughed, as always, uncomfortable discussing his time in the military. “Yes, shot in the shoulder I’m afraid. Not enough to kill me, just enough to keep me out of the lineup.” He found that making light of what was actually a life-threatening injury was the best way to handle it.

“Don’t be coy, Doctor. I’m well aware that the military does not invalid anyone unless they’re seriously injured. Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve made a remarkable recovery.”

John was left with the same uneasy feeling that he had when listening to Sherlock and Mycroft deduce him- like they could read his mind. He just nodded.

“And now you are with my son.” Again- a question without a question.

“We share the flat, I do the dishes, he catches criminals, I blog about it. We’re friends.” John’s brain raced, trying to figure out where this was going.

“Oh that’s not all you do, John. You ground him and you buoy him. You’re good for him. He’s such a delicate, romantic soul. It’s good for him to have someone steady around.”

John laughed. “Sherlock? Delicate and romantic? Are we talking about the same man? He’s reduced schoolmarms to tears and driven police officers to distraction. He doesn’t have a delicate bone in his body!”

Mummy stopped and turned. “Really, Dr. Watson? Think…” 

John thought. Thought about Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, the tenderness there. He thought about Sherlock and The Woman- the sad songs after her supposed death. He thought about the ashtray from Buckingham Palace, the dinners out when John was the only one eating, the violin on the nights he woke up panting from nightmares…

Mummy watched John’s eyes widen, and smiled. “Yes. Now you see. Sherlock had a difficult adolescence. So eager to be loved, so ready to BE with someone. I’m afraid he was often too eager and was terribly hurt and disappointed in the process. It’s never easy, young love, and made even more difficult by being young ‘forbidden’ love.” The phrase dripped off her tongue like poison. “As if any love should be forbidden.” She shook her head. “But that’s an entirely different discussion, isn’t it? One perhaps best left for Sherlock and Rhys.”

John‘s eyes widened even further. “Oh yes,” Mummy said with a wicked smile. “I believe Sherlock is right up Rhys’ alley, don’t you?”

John grinned, knowing that once again, Sherlock had missed one key point with his initial deduction. 

They began to walk again, closer together, Mummy having slipped her arm from his and put it instead around his waist, as if tired. When he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, she smiled.

She stopped and turned in his embrace. “This is my room, John.”

They stood facing each other, arms still wrapped loosely around. 

John’s mind was reeling. He’d been in similar situations dozens of times. He knew how it could end up and it terrified him. There was no doubt in his mind that he wanted this woman, there were just a few doubts that she wanted him in return. But could he? With Sherlock’s mother?

The moment stretched out, John licked his lips.

“Mummy? What on earth are you doing up this late?”

Mycroft.

John had never been so glad or so frustrated to see the elder Holmes. He blushed from tip to tails, and rapidly released his grasp. 

Mummy laughed her throaty laugh, and kissed John delicately on the cheek, whispering “Children. Always underfoot when they shouldn’t be.” She turned to Mycroft and said “I’m just retiring now, dear. Dr. Watson was kind enough to escort me home.” She gave Mycroft a brief hug and went into her room.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John and headed down the hall. “Oh John” he said, “you’ll find your rooms are in the east wing, last on the left.”

John gulped and wondered which way was east. Before Mycroft turned the corner he stopped and pointed. “East is that way.”

***************************************

It took ages, and one potentially embarrassing wrong door (Thank goodness Auntie Vera IS deaf) before John found his room. It was nice, he thought. A bit larger than his room in 221B, a bit smaller than the parlor. A queen bed filled much of the space, with a comfortable chair and wardrobe as well. He was pleased to see his suitcase had been unpacked, his pajamas laid out on the coverlet, his shaving kit visible on the bathroom counter. 

He turned off the overhead light and turned on the bedside lamp as he began to loosen his tie. Opening the wardrobe, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror within. Damn. He did look good. He grinned and silently thanked Mycroft.

Oh.

Mycroft. Mycroft who had caught him practically undressing Mummy with his eyes. Mycroft who know just about bloody everything anyway.

John sighed and shook his head. This entire family was overwhelming and he was suddenly very, very tired. He hung his new suit up, put on his nightclothes and crawled into the soft nest of the bed.

Just as he was dropping off, his phone chimed. “Goodnight. -SH” John smiled. This family.

**********************************************************************

Bright morning sunlight streamed through the curtains much too early for John. It was Saturday, he was off from the clinic, he was in a luxurious bed (he had to get better sheets at home, that much was certain) and he did not want to wake up. He rolled over on his stomach and was immediately aware of the fact that part of him most definitely did want to be up.

He moaned and rocked his hips slightly, enjoying the pressure on his rapidly stiffening cock. Some days, if he awoke in this condition, he could doze off again with no problem. Today was not one of those days, and he was actually ok with that. He suspected he’d had torrid dreams about Mummy, even the thought of her this morning was enough to provoke another thrust into the mattress.

He rolled over on his back, and propped himself up with a few of the seemingly dozens of pillows on the bed. He kicked off his pajama bottoms and his pants, and then pulled his tshirt off as well. Naked on the silky sheets (what WAS the thread count on these anyway?) he began to run his fingers lightly over his torso.

John knew exactly how he liked to be touched, and very much liked touching himself. He was his own private playground, and he was never bored. His hands stroked gently down his sides, then back up the opposite arms, he especially liked to feel fingernails scrape gently up the insides of his forearms. Then across his chest, carefully avoiding his already erect nipples. His right hand snaked up to his throat, his left trailed down his abs to his navel, following the dark blond trail of hair until his fingers reached the base of his cock, but he didn’t touch.

He brought his knees up, and began to stroke the insides of his thighs. First with just his left hand, but quickly, his right joined. He progressed from fingertips to fingernails, and his knees fell further open. He tilted his head back and smiled as he felt the tingle begin in his belly.

Once the heat started, he began to let his mind wander. Mummy in her stripper heels, Mummy in her bare feet… what would have happened if Mycroft hadn’t shown up? Would John have taken her up on her unspoken offer? They would have gone into her room, where she would have turned away so he could slowly unzip that green gown. Inch by inch, he would have exposed her skin, and inch by inch, he would have put his lips on her. 

John groaned and fantasy took over…

He finished unzipping the dress and let it fall to the floor. Mummy stepped delicately out of it, and turned to face him. Instead of a bra, she wore a basque, that gorgeous long corset that displayed her breasts and whittled her waist. Matching panties peeked out from behind garter straps, and nearly invisible stockings embraced her thighs. 

She reached for him, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. When it was open, she ran her hands over his chest and pulled at his nipples. When she was sure she had his attention, she leaned in for a kiss, and John was lost. He loved to kiss, and was told he was good at it, but he had nothing on Mummy. She teased his lips open with her dainty tongue, and instead of diving in and jousting with his, she began to slowly kitten lick the inside of his lips, never stopping, never avoiding his tongue, but never engaging it either. It was delirious. He held her by her shoulders, afraid to do much else, while she drove him mad. He felt her push gently on his chest, not separating the two of them, but guiding him back toward the bed. He sat down on it with a whimper, having lost the connection. 

She pulled off his jacket and shirt, and undid his belt and trousers. He was stunned at the sudden heat in her eyes, and was broken from his reverie by her sharp request “Up!” He lifted his hips, toed off his shoes and socks, and just like that, he was naked. 

Mummy pushed him back on the bed, toward the lavish headboard. Reality of the morning and dreams of the previous night were merging.

She ran her manicured nails up and down John’s thighs, just as he liked. His cock bounced in anticipation, but she didn’t stroke it yet. Instead, she cupped his balls gently, rolling them in her palm, feeling their heft, the hair there, how the skin moved at her touch. In the bright light of reality, John did the same, imagining her elegant fingers instead of his own sturdy ones.

 

She moved one finger down, behind his scrotum and teased the flesh there, drawing a sharp exhale from him. With a wink, she put that finger in her mouth to wet it, and returned it to his crotch, this time lower, deeper, dirtier. John’s head rolled back with the thought of oh so proper Mummy Holmes fingering his ass and his hips pushed against the air. He mimicked Fantasy-Mummy’s actions, running his own wet finger against his hole. When she pressed into him, so did he. When she fucked his ass, so did he. When she moved her other hand from his balls to grasp his shaft, so did he. 

When she tightened her grip and began to stroke and press into him even deeper, he bore down and reached as far as he could. As a doctor, he knew what he was trying for, but just…couldn’t…reach. So he began to pump his hips in earnest as he fucked his hand harder and faster.

He could see her hands in his mind. Long white fingers wrapped around him, strong palms, fingertips roughened by years against the violin strings. Before he could register what he was seeing he came with a strangled cry and fell back against the pillows.

What the hell was that about?


	4. Rondo

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, John found his way to the dining room and indulged in a full and proper English breakfast, minus the mushrooms. After living with Sherlock for as long as he had, there was just something about fungus that didn’t sit right.  
  
None of the Holmes family was in attendance, so John made small talk with a few straggling guests and the housekeeper. He walked around the gardens, he perused the books in the library.  
  
He was bored. He was still a little hung over. He was still a little out of sorts. He wanted to go home.  
  
He got out his phone. “Where are you? I’d like to go home.”  
  
“Staying here overnight, go without me. Make Mycroft send a car. –SH”  
  
Sherlock staying at Mummy’s? VOLUNTARILY?  
  
John thought back to Mummy’s comments about Rhys from the night before. “Well, fair fucks to him then.” And he rang for Jensen.  
  
*****************************************************  
John worked at the clinic on Sunday, went to the pub with Lestrade Sunday night, and worked again on Monday.  
  
By the time he returned to Baker Street Monday night, with a bag full of Chinese take away, he was done in. Flu season was starting, and, as every doctor knows, when flu season starts, hypochondria season is fast on its heels. John spent two days straight reassuring people that they had the sniffles, not the plague, not ebola and, in response to one spectacular case of “I read it on the Internet, it must be true” he convinced a Mr. Doyle that he most definitely did NOT have anoplocephala perfoliata, as that was a tapeworm only found in HORSES.  
  
The flat was dark, John supposed Sherlock was in his room, but didn’t bother to check. He was tired, and hungry and tired. He grabbed a fork from the kitchen (never could work chopsticks) and went to his room without bothering to turn on any lights.  
  
Tuesday came much too early, by John’s reckoning. Yawning and stretching, he shambled downstairs to fix a cuppa, and noticed a large case on the floor in the parlor, and even more surprising- a lanky ginger asleep on the couch. Rhys had come to visit.  
  
Sherlock was perched in his armchair, wrapped in a sheet, reading sheet music and plucking at his violin’s strings.  
  
“If we add an eighth note rest to measure 34, then the triplet in measure 35 will flow more smoothly,” he said. “Don’t you agree?”  
  
John looked around. “What?”  
  
Sherlock looked surprised at John’s voice. “What? No. Not you, John. I was talking to Rhys. Please stop interrupting our conversation.”  
  
With a glance at the cellist drooling on the furniture, and a glance in his teacup, John shook his head and shuffled back to the bathroom to get ready for work. Seems he wasn’t the only one Sherlock talked to in absentia. He didn’t know if that was funny or not.  
  
***********************************  
Thursday afternoon, John left the clinic early. The initial rush of flu and flu-like cases had waned, and Sarah all but pushed him out the door. “Go away. You worked Sunday, you get to have a little free time.”  
  
Free time. Indeed- he hadn’t had much free time at all since moving into 221B. Sherlock kept him running ragged with cases and random texts at all times of the day or night.  
  
Wait. Texts.  
  
John pulled out his mobile and looked. He hadn’t received a single text from Sherlock since Saturday morning. No “We have a case” no “I need patches” no “It was the third sister, not the next door neighbor.” It was disconcerting. And to be honest, a little depressing…  
  
The post had arrived at Baker Street, and John flipped through it as he walked up the stairs. (bills, bills, advert, Dear Occupant, ah- actual mail, addressed to “Dr. Watson”) He could hear Sherlock’s violin upstairs.  
  
The packet was larger than a regular envelope, thick cream paper and navy calligraphy matched that of the invite to Rhys’ recital. John was curious…  
  
He went into the flat through the kitchen door, that was the closest to the bins. No sense in dragging junk mail into the house any further than he had to. Bills went on the sideboard, and he turned the large envelope over in his hands.  
  
The violin stopped, and a movement in the parlor caught John’s eye before he could open his letter. Sherlock stepped up behind Rhys as he sat in a chair, and hooked his chin over the cellist’s shoulder. He pointed out something on the sheet music with his bow, and both men laughed. Rhys brought his hand up around the side of Sherlock’s head and patted him there, briefly. Then Sherlock stepped back and both began to play again.  
  
John was thunderstruck. Sherlock initiating contact, and accepting it in return. The chin over the shoulder was so Sherlock, though. John experienced it many times while he was blogging. It just surprised him to see it repeated.  
  
“I think Sherlock is right up Rhys’ alley.” “Fair fucks to him.” John shook his head hard. He wasn’t sure what was going on in there OR in the parlor, but whatever was happening could be made better by a nice cuppa. Yes. Tea.  
  
He bustled around, getting the kettle ready. He absently pulled down two mugs, then a third, then stopped when the music did. “Rhys? Would you like a cuppa?”  
  
Both musicians turned in shock. They hadn’t even realized he was there.  
  
“No thank you, John” Rhys responded. “I don’t like to eat or drink while I’m practicing. It slows me down.”  
  
John put the third mug away, and when the tea was ready, he placed Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table, where he’d be sure to ignore it.  
  
“Been a slow week for you, eh Sherlock? No cases.”  
  
“Of course not! We had the most interesting double homicide on Carnaby Street. A shopowner was strangled with a pair of fishnet tights, and the shopgirl with a vintage Mary Quant miniskirt. It was devilishly complex.”  
  
“Oh… You didn’t call me.”  
  
“No need. Rhys was here already, so he went with me. Quite helpful too, pointed out some bits that other people would have missed.”  
  
Sherlock turned back to the music and the duo took up where they left off.  
  
John picked up his letter and went upstairs.  
  
*************************************************  
John turned the phrases over in his head as he went up the staircase. First step- left foot- I think Sherlock is right up Rhys’ alley. Second step- right foot- Fair fucks to him. Thirds step- left foot- I think Sherlock is right up Rhys’ alley. Fourth step- right foot- fair fucks to him. All the way up to his room.  
  
He closed his door and sat on his bed. His head ached with thinking. He drank his tea and thought some more, then remembered his letter.  
  
He put his mug down and opened the envelope. Inside were photographs, professionally taken during Rhys’ recital. John vaguely remembered the photographer lurking about.  
  
The first shot was of him kissing Mummy’s hand. He smiled, remembering her laugh, her soft skin, that moment full of possibilities.  
  
The second must have been taken right after Sherlock pulled him away. They were standing together, but John was turned away. Sherlock was looking at him intently, and John remembered that brief flash of… of what exactly? Because from the photo it looked remarkably open, affectionate even.  
  
The third was immediately after that, when he’d turned to face Sherlock. Damn. They looked good. Their suits complimented each other, their coloring their height difference- everything opposite but matched. John was smiling, Sherlock wasn’t, but neither was he frowning, so John took it as a win.  
  
The fourth photo though, was during the recital itself. Taken from the side, it showed Sherlock’s profile in the fore, open-mouthed, eyes heavy lidded, he was somewhat out of focus. John was next to him, but instead of looking forward, he had been caught looking at Sherlock with wonder, his own eyes wide, his tongue tip showing between his lips.  
  
If he didn’t know any better, he’d have said he looked lustful.  
  
Oh. OH.  
  
The pictures fell to the floor as memories of the morning after washed over him. The strong hand on his cock… NOT Mummy’s. The voice urging him on… too deep, too masculine, too Sherlock.  
  
Uh oh.


	5. Minuet

John was stunned at his revelation. He knew he was fond of Sherlock, that he loved Sherlock more than anyone else in his life, but did he really see Sherlock THAT WAY?  
  
And then there was the hurt of being left out of a case, the praise for Rhys, the complete shut out.  
  
There were many things that John envied about Sherlock, but at this moment, the Mind Palace was at the top of the list. To be able to compartmentalize, to put something away and think about it later. John’s mind wasn’t nearly as dull as Sherlock thought, he was a doctor after all. He was a crack shot and a good officer and a smart man. But he could not turn his thoughts on and off without distractions.  
  
And right now, distractions equaled Pub.  
  
John stood and grabbed his bath accoutrements, and when he turned, his eyes fell once again to the envelope. In addition to the photos, there was a note: “I had no idea. I’m sorry. –Vienne Holmes”  
  
John rolled his eyes so hard he may have actually seen his own brain stem. “Great. Just bloody great.”  
  
Right. Shower. Pub. Distractions.  
  
“Greg. Pub? –JW”  
  
“Sure. Where/when?”  
  
“Mermaid or King’s Head? -JW”  
  
“King’s Head. Trying to get on w/new waitress.”  
  
“Great. See you in 45- gotta shower. Had sick-up @ clinic.”  
  
“And here I was excited about near-decapitation in lorry accident.”  
  
*********************************  
After his shower, John gathered the photos to take to show Lestrade. He wanted proof that he looked good in a suit, and to show him Mummy.  
  
When he got downstairs, the parlor was empty, the cello case gone. He relaxed, not even realizing he’d tensed up in the first place.  
  
He grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door. Before he left though, he pulled the photos from the envelope and left it, the last photo, and the note on the sideboard. No need to involve Greg in THAT.  
  
***********************************  
“You’re bloody JOKING. I refuse to believe that is Sherlock’s mum. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. That… queen… gave birth to Sherlock Ruddy Holmes.”  
  
Lestrade was feeling his pints by now.  
  
“And Mycroft. Don’t forget Mycroft. Sodding Mycroft Sodding I Run The British Empire And Look In Your Sock Drawer Holmes.”  
  
John was right there with him, and then some.  
  
“Didyouknow that I was THISCLOSE to getting laid? THISCLOSE. But Mister Mycroft Nobody Ever Gets A Leg Over Holmes stuck his ruddy big nose in.”  
  
“Wot? You getting laid? You and Sherlock finally…” Greg couldn’t finish the thought, but merely waved his hand and waggled his eyebrows.  
  
“Wot? No! Why doesn’t anybody believe me? I’M NOT GAY. Besides- Sherlock’s got a new fffriend.” John sounded just like Sherlock had at Baskerville, in front of the fire. “They’re probably shagging now. Sherlock and Rhys. Rhys. Reeeeees. What the bloody hell kind of name is Rhys anyway? Should be pronounced Errr-hiss. Errr-hiss the musician. Err-hiss the detective. Err-hiss the boyfriend.”  
  
Burp. “Err-hiss.”  
  
“Well for somebody that’s not interested in Sherlock, and who isn’t gay, you sure sound jealous.” Greg ventured tentatively. “Wait. Rhys is that ginger from Carnaby Street?”  
  
“Spot on. Evidently he’s ‘quite helpful’ and pointy.” John’s air quotes nearly overturned the empty mugs in front of the duo.  
  
“Poncey, yes, but pointy?” Greg wondered if he’d heard John correctly.  
  
“He pointed things out that OTHER people would have missed. Tall pointy bastard. And he drooled on the sofa. Didn’t want any tea.” John slumped a little, grumbling.  
  
Greg shook his head, paid the bill, dragged John outside and hailed a cab.  
  
“Poor lump. Sherlock’s enough to drive anyone to drink.”  
  
**********************************  
Back at 221B, Lestrade told the cabbie to wait and propelled John up the stairs. It was rough going, and by the time they’d reached the landing, Greg wasn’t sure he could get John up to his room. He pushed the door open, thankful for small favors that it was unlocked. With John’s arm around his neck, he staggered into the parlor.  
  
The scene in front of him was eerily familiar, but at the same time all wrong. Sherlock was in his chair with his laptop, dressing gown and pajamas on. Rhys was in John’s chair, reading, also in pajamas.  
  
“Oi. Sherlock. A little help here?”  
  
At his shout, John perked up a bit. “Oi indeed! Don’t go drooling on my chair.” He giggled. “And stop pointing.”  
  
Greg sighed. “Sherlock, please help me get him to his room. I don’t think you want him down here tonight.”  
  
Sherlock glanced at the drunken duo and shook his head. Evidently he was in one of his silent modes tonight.  
  
Greg sighed again, then Rhys stood to help.  
  
John caught the movement, even as drunk as he was, and shouted “No. Oh pointy bird, oh pointy pointy. You don’t get to help Lestrade Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  
  
Greg looked at Rhys with surprise. “Fine. I’ll drag him up myself.”  
  
He poured John into bed and went back to the parlor. “Keep an eye on him if you remember. He’s going to feel this tomorrow.”  
  
Neither the detective nor the cellist acknowledged his presence, so he shook his head and left.  
  
********************************  
Jaysus what did he drink?  
  
John felt… bad. He felt so bad he couldn’t even come up with a word bad enough to describe how bad he felt. He lay on his bed and very carefully catalogued himself. Muscles, sore. Stomach, queasy. Head, POUNDING. Mouth… something died in his mouth. When he felt alive again he’d kill Sherlock for experimenting on him. That had to be the reason for feeling this monumentally shitty. Oh! He came up with a better word.  
  
Shitty.  
  
He pried one eye open, and wished he hadn’t. London seemed to have been transported to the surface of the sun, judging by the brightness. He vaguely wondered if he could just stay in bed and roast to death.  
  
He moved his eyeball gently, and saw a glass of water and some paracetamol on the bedside table. He should really thank Greg for that. He sat up very carefully, and reached for the glass. It was cold. The water in the glass was nearly ice cold.  
  
So. Not Greg. Interesting. He’d have to ponder that more later, when his brain functioned. Right now he had to get up and try not to explode.  
  
******************************  
The shower was good. It took a few minutes to get there, and a few more minutes standing in front of the toilet while he debated having his own sick-up, but the shower was good. When John emerged, he felt almost human.  
  
Now toast. No butter, no jam, just toast. And tea. Very, very weak tea and dry toast.  
  
He puttered in the kitchen, fixing his breakfast. The parlor was, thankfully, silent. He looked forward to a quiet day, perhaps he’d start a fire and sit in his chair and read.  
  
Something prickled at the back of his mind. Something about his chair. Something about reading in his chair. He didn’t think too hard, he didn’t want to injure any more brain cells.  
  
He picked up his breakfast and walked into the parlor, and there was Sherlock. Holding the pictures, the envelope and the note.  
  
“So, John. It seems we have to talk.”  
  
John quickly put down his tea and toast and made a dash for the bathroom.


	6. Coda

As John heaved and moaned in the loo, Sherlock sat quietly, thinking back to his conversation with Lestrade earlier that morning.

In the “excitement” of the prior evening, John’s photos were left in the cab. Greg brought them back on his way to the Yard….

The bell rang and Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson open the door. One set of footsteps up- must be someone familiar. Must be Lestrade. Greg knocked gently and stuck his head in. 

“Am I interrupting anything?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John’s dead to the world upstairs and I’m thinking, so yes- you are interrupting, but nothing like what you‘re thinking.” He was in a particularly stroppy mood.

“Right. Well, I wanted to drop these off. John left them in the cab last night. Not bad shots actually. You two clean up nicely. And if your mum ever needs the Yard’s assistance with ANYTHING…” He winked and smiled, then turned serious. “Look, Sherlock, I know it’s not really my business,”

Sherlock started to speak but Lestrade waved him off, and then ran his hands through his silver hair, trying to find the right words.

“John was in a right state last night. This… thing… of yours with Rhys has really thrown him for a loop. Be… gentle with him today.”

Sherlock snorted. “He’s had hangovers before, and if anything, he should be embarrassed about his behavior. Honestly, he YELLED and recited bad movie poetry.”

Lestrade sighed, and wondered if he wanted to have this discussion right now. He tugged at his hair again.

“It’s not just the hangover. The man is heartbroken. This _THING OF YOURS WITH RHYS_ has thrown him for a loop! I don’t know how else to put it, because I don’t know how much of it he actually sees it himself. But Sherlock, if you two don’t pull your heads out of your own arses and realize that you’re mad for each other, you’ll both lose it all. And then what will you do?”

He shoved the photos into Sherlock’s hands. “Look at these and deduce. I have to go.”

So Sherlock looked, and deduced. 

First photo. “Thrown off by Mummy. Kissing her hand instead of her cheek to make up for his height. Too-big smile covering initial embarrassment, flirting… wait. John’s smile? That is John’s too-big-almost-fake smile right there. Interesting.”

He flipped to the second photo. “Nothing here. John’s back is turned, how am I supposed to work with that? He’s thoroughly engrossed in the buffet. Fish-berry jam.” Sherlock smiled a little at that. “That woman behind me is looking at John with interest, the man next to her is looking at his watch with impatience. I am looking…” He stopped. “I am looking at John. Why am I looking like that?” He thought back to their conversation. 

_“You’re over exaggerating, Sherlock. She’s not interested in me, why would she be? I’m ordinary.”_

Stunned disbelief, that’s what was showing on Sherlock’s face. Did John really think he was ordinary? Of all the people Sherlock knew, John was nearly the least ordinary. There was Mycroft, of course, but Sherlock would never let him know that. There was Moriarty, there was John. Interesting.

The third photo made Sherlock understand Lestrade’s compliment. He and John did look quite good. John, over his initial discomfort was smiling his real smile, full of genuine emotion. John smiled a lot, but this particular KIND of smile didn’t come out very often. But it did that night, and it was aimed full force at Sherlock. Interesting.

Sherlock put the photos down and listened for any movement in the flat. Nothing from upstairs, nothing from his room. He needed… he really needed John to make some tea. He sighed. He supposed he could make his own tea.

In the kitchen he put the kettle on and got out a clean mug. He knew there was at least one mug of cold tea somewhere in the parlor, but he couldn’t be arsed to go get it. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he looked around. He spotted the big cream envelope on the sideboard, and saw that it had another photo in it. Interesting. Why was that one separate from the others? He opened it and spilled out the photo, and the note.

_“I had no idea. I’m sorry. –Vienne Holmes”_

What on EARTH could MUMMY be apologizing to John for? Mummy never apologized for anything. No one in the Holmes family apologizes. 

Then he looked at the photo. OH. 

His stomach flipped and tightened, and he suddenly forgot how to breathe. The look on John’s face. He’d never seen it before, but Sherlock knew he’d give anything to see it again. 

“Rhys? Rhys wake up. You have to leave. Now.” Sherlock put the photo down and strode into his room.

Rhys was sprawled on the bed, looking like a gangly ginger starfish, all pajama-clad legs and elbows. Sherlock was glad to have slept on the sofa all week. The cellist snuffled and woke.

“Wot?” The single syllable sounded gruff, and Rhys cleared his throat and tried again. “What’s going on, Sherlock? Is something wrong?”

“Yes. Something is terribly wrong, and if I don’t fix it…” Sherlock couldn’t finish the sentence. How could he say “If I don’t fix it I’ll die” to Rhys?

Rhys stood, confused and ruffled, and uncharacteristically adorable. “Sherlock, are you ok? What’s going on?” He tried to grasp Sherlock’s arm, but the detective twisted away.

“Rhys, I…” he gulped. He hated this part. Rhys was a good man, and he was so much like Sherlock. They were comfortable together, and in another time or place, they’d have been comfortable together for a very long time. But now… now Sherlock had the chance of John, and even a chance was worth the attempt.

“I think I love John.” Well THAT’S not what he thought he’d say.

Both men stood, wide eyed and stunned at the revelation. 

“What? John? John-in-jumpers, John with sick on him from the clinic, would-you-like-some-tea John? Drunken, shouting John?” Rhys’ green eyes flashed as he worked himself up. “But what about… this?” He waved his arms around. “We haven’t even started yet. We’re two of a kind, Sherlock. We FIT. We could play duets together forever. Go on tour, see the world. Together. You can’t have that sort of extraordinary life with John. What would you have?”

“I’d have tea. And I’d have John.” Sherlock smiled. He looked at Rhys and felt a twinge. He wasn’t such a bad man, he just wasn’t John. “You have to go, Rhys. I can have Mycroft send a car to take you to Holmes Manor. Mummy will continue to sponsor you, and I do hope to be invited to future concerts. But this… relationship we’ve been having is over.”

He turned from the room and texted Mycroft.

************************************************

The dreadful sounds from the bathroom stopped, so Sherlock ventured in with a glass of water and a clean flannel. John was sitting on the floor, head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

“John…”

“Not yet, Sherlock. Give me a few more minutes.”

Sherlock put the glass and cloth down where John could reach them, and went back to the parlor.

***********************************************

John physically felt much, much better. His head still pounded, but he wasn’t as queasy. Now though, it was his heart that hurt. He’d have to leave 221B. Oh Sherlock might say it was ok for him to stay, but if Rhys was going to be there, John couldn’t bear it. So he’d leave. Maybe he could stay with Greg for a while, until he found his own place. He could be out today, if he had to be. He choked back a small sob. What had he done? What did he say last night? He remembered Greg helping him up the stairs, he remembered yelling. Who was he yelling at? What did he say?

Right. He was never drinking again. He’d said it before, but this time he meant it.

He staggered upright and ran the flannel over his face a few times. He swished some water in his mouth and spit, then drank the rest slowly. Anything to put off facing Sherlock, and having to leave his home. He sighed.

He drew himself up and looked in the mirror. He was Captain John Watson, M.D. dammit. And he could do this.

He executed a swift turn and walked out, ready to face his destiny. He just never figured his destiny would be in the form of a tall, mad, detective.

********************************************

John strode confidently into the parlor, and was greeted by the sight of two fresh mugs of tea on the coffee table, and Sherlock on the couch. He looked around for Rhys, or Mrs. Hudson, or anyone else who might have been hiding.

This was all wrong. It threw off his equilibrium and jumbled the discussion he’d already had with Sherlock in his head. “Sherlock. Did you make tea?” It wasn’t the best opening for a conversation of this magnitude, but it was all he could think of to say.

“Obviously, John. Now sit down. You’re swaying where you’re standing.”

John perched on the other end of the sofa, fight or flight ready to engage, he was just so disjointed right now. 

“Drink your tea. I made yours fairly weak.” Sherlock pressed John’s mug into his hands. It felt warm, familiar. John closed his eyes as he raised it to his lips. He relaxed as he sipped.

He opened his eyes at Sherlock’s movement, surprised to see he’d moved even closer.

“Sherlock, I can move…” He didn’t get to finish.

Sherlock took John’s mug and put it on the table, then leaned in and kissed John gently on the lips.

They pulled back and looked at each other. John was completely frozen, his eyes wide open, his jaw dropped. Sherlock frowned and leaned in again, putting his hand gently on the back of John’s head. 

They kissed again, slower, longer. 

Sherlock felt John relax more, and spread his fingers out through John’s short hair. John made a happy noise in the back of his throat, but suddenly tensed and pulled back.

“Sherlock, what the hell? You have to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. My brain is still trying to rebuild from last night, I don’t know what’s going on. I’m confused.”

“I saw, John. But I did not observe.”

“…um. What?”

“You. Us. Everything we have, and everything it could be.” 

John tried to interrupt “But, what about…”

“Stop. Let me continue. I need you, John. I need you to make me tea, and clean up my messes, and make sure I eat.” 

John snorted.

“But most of all, I need YOU. I need you to ground me and to buoy me. I know you’re not technically gay, I know you want women. But I think, I hope, that there’s a little part of you that wants ME, and if there is, I’d be very happy.”

John raised an eyebrow at the familiar phrasing. Did all Holmes family members have that weird telepathy thing going on?

Sherlock continued. “I sent Rhys away. He’s a fine man, and deserves the best. He deserves someone who can love him wholeheartedly, and that’s not me.”

John tried to catch up. “But this whole time- you ignored me. You didn’t call me for a case, you TOUCHED him, you SLEPT with him, you let him touch YOU.”

“You’re right, and you’re wrong. Rhys was something new and exciting, and it was exhilarating to play duets with him. Yes, I touched him, yes I allowed him to touch me. The music was our conduit. But I did not sleep with him. I wanted none of that. Unfortunately, I found out this morning that he did, so I’m hoping that sending him away now was the kind thing to do. It’s what you would have done, isn’t it?”

John nodded, then shook his head, then looked at Sherlock.

“You sent him away because of me? Because of what I did last night? I’m so sorry, Sherlock, I don’t know what I said or…”

Sherlock laughed. “I wish I’d recorded it then. Shall I re-enact it? ‘Oh pointy bird, oh pointy, pointy…’ Come here, you sot.”

John groaned and Sherlock pulled him closer and they toppled backwards along the length of the couch. “I sent him away because he ISN’T you. I sent him away because I don’t want him like that. I want YOU like that, if you’ll have me,” he mouthed into John’s hair and stroked John’s back.

John was glad his head was down so Sherlock couldn’t see and deduce him. He had to gather his thoughts before he could handle that. Oh GOD he wished he wasn’t so wrecked this morning.

He pulled his head up and looked at Sherlock. Not trusting his voice, he inched up the lanky body until their faces were even, then dipped down and kissed. Tongues extended, then retracted. Passionate, but teasing a bit. Building, growing, learning. 

John’s hands ran up to Sherlock’s hair, and his knees moved to bracket Sherlock’s slim hips. He kissed like he was drowning and Sherlock’s breath was the only thing to save him. His hips moved of their own accord, slowly back and forth across Sherlock’s lap.

After several minutes, they pulled apart, gasping. “I take that as a yes?” Sherlock grinned.

“Oh God yes.”

“Good. Because if you don’t get your clothes off right now so I can feel your skin against mine I will… I will” Sherlock’s voice faltered, because John was licking at his neck. 

“You’ll what?” John growled, as he thrust his hips harder. “You have no idea what I can do with my clothes still on.” John was definitely feeling better, and was practically giddy at the thought of driving Sherlock to distraction. “I can make you feel so good, I want to make you feel good.” 

That was it, wasn’t it? John loved to make Sherlock feel good. The fussing about eating, the tea making, the patching up after cases… it all led to this. He loved Sherlock from the first day. What he didn’t know was how much he WANTED Sherlock. Well. He’d definitely make up for lost time.

Sherlock looked at him quizzically. “Um… you were saying?” 

“Naked. Now. Your bed. Now.” John abandoned his thoughts of teasing fully clothed. He needed to feel Sherlock’s skin, all of it, and the sooner the better, and the faster they got to bed the better.

They flung themselves on the bed and stopped, looking at each other, paralyzed between fear and desire. “Are you sure you’re ok with…?” “Yes.”

Sherlock rolled John onto his back and began touching him. First fingers up and down John’s legs, gently feeling the muscles, the skin, the hair. But it wasn’t enough. He leaned down and began licking. He started with John’s ankles, exploring the thin skin there, feeling the sharp bones, feeling the Achilles tendon flex. Up to his calves, biting the strong muscle there gently, tasting, licking… the backs of John’s knees tasted of sweat, and Sherlock feasted until John begged him to stop. The insides of John’s thighs showed pale scratches, and Sherlock nipped them gently. At that, John nearly rocketed off the bed. “Ohhhh God, Sherlock. Do that again. Use your nails.”

Sherlock complied eagerly. He could feel John straining to stay still, his muscles quivering as he tried to keep from bucking his hips. Sherlock continued to lick, nibble and scratch until John lost control and Sherlock could no longer keep his mouth touching skin.

He pulled back and let John relax, but kept running his hands gently over the twitching muscles.

“OK?” “Ok.”

By then, Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer. He launched up the bed to cover John’s body with his own. He angled his hips together with John’s so their cocks could touch. “Oh Jesus, John.” He pulled John’s hands out and away from his body, stretching them up so the two of them laid skin to skin from fingertips to toes. They writhed against each other, no rhythm, no design, just feeling skin to skin, rubbing and feeling EVERYTHING. 

Sherlock raised his head and licked John’s lips. John thought of his Mummy fantasy briefly, and wondered if he was prescient. Sherlock was licking him exactly the way he’d imagined Mummy would, exactly the way John needed. Then the thought faded away and John fell into the kiss.

Sherlock reached to the nightstand and pulled back with some lube. He raised up just a bit, enough to lube their cocks just a touch. He laid back down and began to thrust his hips.

“Jesus Sherlock. How did I not know? I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock looked at John’s face, so full of agony, caught between tears and pleasure. “Because you’re an idiot. We’re both idiots, but at least we’re idiots together now.” and he ground slowly against John’s cock.

John gasped and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he caught his tongue between his lips and looked at Sherlock, who smiled with wonder. “There it is. Oh God John. I want to see that look all the time. Every day. I want you to look at me and melt me, and then build me up again.” He punctuated his words with his hips, getting rougher and more erratic with each syllable.

John reached around and grabbed Sherlock’s arse and thrust up as best he could. “Yes. God yes.” He grunted and grabbed and gasped as Sherlock drove against him. “Sherlo…” the name was cut short as John was swept into his orgasm. His eyes slammed shut and he bit down hard. His breath hissed between his teeth as he inhaled quickly, then released with a groan as he coated his stomach. His head threw back and his mouth opened. His hips stuttered against Sherlock’s.

That was all it took to send Sherlock over the edge. He struggled to keep his eyes open, John was gorgeous and sexy and so very NOT ordinary. He must remember to tell… and then his mind was blank. He gasped and screwed his eyes shut as his own orgasm raced through him, and he collapsed.

When their breath stilled, John reached for his tshirt and cleaned them off somewhat. He laid back and Sherlock snuggled up against him, their arms wrapped around each other. 

“John. You’re NOT ordinary. You are every extraordinary thing in my life and I never want you to forget it. I’m sorry I haven’t told you before this. Rhys and I may have been playing music, but you and I will write a symphony together. A symphony that will take the rest of our lives to play out, and will never be finished.”

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> [This photoset was the inspiration for John’s suit](http://daziechane.tumblr.com/post/61036860420/i-find-this-ridiculously-hot)   
> [This is the inspiration for Sherlock's suit, just different colors and no tie](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/karin_woywod/11451123/3664001/3664001_original.jpg)   
> [Inspiration for Mummy, the fantastic Helen Mirren](http://www.soleilorganique.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/helen-mirren.jpg)   
> [Rhys, AKA Domhnall Gleeson](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lixjy5OakV1qatzhuo1_400.jpg)   
> [Rhys' first piece](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qbs2H_PvGpE)   
> [This is a basque, without garters](http://www.dhresource.com/albu_375519738_00-1.0x0/new-sexy-underwear-basque-overbust-satin.jpg)
> 
> Fish berry jam and Auntie Vera are from the movie "Auntie Mame"  
> "Oh pointy birds, oh pointy pointy" is from the movies "LA Story" and "The Man With Two Brains"  
> Mummy has a protege alludes to the movie "My Man Godfrey"


End file.
